


Echoes of Yesterday

by myriddin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Brief instance of physical assault, Canonical Character Death, Creepy Robert, F/M, Families of Choice, Foster Siblings, via Joffrey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriddin/pseuds/myriddin
Summary: Prompt: Jon is born with silver hair and purple eyes and Sansa is the one to take after her Aunt Lyanna.Born with the Targaryen look, Jon is hidden away in the obscurity of the Neck. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark is Lyanna reborn, in looks if not in spirit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, it took me a while to figure out how this would be different from any other “Jon is raised somewhere other than Winterfell” AU, but then I realized how much Sansa have the Stark looks might impact her time in King’s Landing. Also ended up exploring a little of Sansa and Arya’s relationship if they’d stayed together.

Though it meant an end to her naiveté, to having her idealistic dreams crash down around her, Sansa didn’t long trust in her princely betrothed and his mother, the Queen. After King Robert began lavishing her with uncomfortable amounts of attention and waxing poetic about her resemblance to her Aunt Lyanna, his wife’s veneer of gracious courtesy proved itself a flimsy thing. The queen made little effort to hide her scorn, and soon enough, the ladies of court and the crown prince followed suit. Though Joffrey didn’t yet make his penchant of cruelty clear, he seemed to delight in every sneer and discourtesy. It was Cersei's snide remarks that made her realize it was desire and not just nostalgia that motivated the king  to look at her the way he did, to lean too close and compare her too often to a woman dead before Sansa's birth.

It wasn't long after the Hand's Tourney that everything came to a head, an evening when Robert leaned just a little too close, wine heavy on his breath as he said yet again invoked her aunt's name, "You're so much like her, girl. Like sweet Lyanna was born again."

That was the moment when everyone's masks began to fully crack, when there was a flash of pure hate and disgust across Cersei's haughty features, where there was an anger like she had never seen in her father's face, as he hastily excused them and had Jory escort her to bed.

Joffrey reacted badly as well to the public display of his father’s interest. He took advantage of a break in her guard to grab her arm and yank her aside, hissing vicious insults and accusations before Kellan and Jarret found them.  If Sansa thought her father had been frighteningly angry the night before, the circle of bruises left by Joffrey’s fingers against her fair skin inspired a cold, stoic silence and the strong hug he swept her into, making sure both she and Arya were bundled away into the Hand’s Tower under careful guard before he left.

When Father announced he was breaking her betrothal and returning them North, it was Sansa who took them by surprise, wanting to weep with relief as she acquiesced immediately. What reason could she have for wanting to stay? Becoming queen one day? What was the appeal in being queen if she had no friends, if her husband was a bully and a coward, if her good-father wanted such sinful things from her?

Father sent them ahead to Riverrun, citing a need to finish his business in King’s Landing before he joined them. The sweetness of their reunion with Mother and Robb couldn’t protect them against the devastation that came not long after with the news of Father’s death.

_Mother held Sansa tightly to her breast, letting her weep until the front of Mother's pretty dress was soaked with her tears. Arya hadn't wanted to cry at first, angry and violent in her grief until Robb marched into Mother's room amidst her tantrum, yanking Arya up and into his arms._

_Arya fought against him at first, but Robb held fast, held their little sister so tightly Sansa wondered how Arya found the strength to wriggle in his strong hold. Then Arya finally went still, her fight melting away until she was clutching Robb just as tightly in return. And the tears finally came, deep, shuddering sobs that twisted Sansa's heart this way and that until she broke again and buried herself in Mother's warmth._

Robb's crowning was surreal enough to penetrate the fog of mourning, as did the panic in her brother's eyes behind the impassive veneer he presented to his bannermen chanting again and again, "King in the North! King in the North!"

It was early in the predawn hours several days later when they next saw him. She and Arya had spent the night with Mother, Sansa stirring out of sleep when there was a knock at the door, sleeping prying her eyes half-mast in time to see Mother cinch her dressing gown and permit their visitor entrance. Robb strode into the room with an air of grave authority the likes of which Sansa had never seen her brother affect. Mother rose to her feet, tucked the covers back over a softly snoring Arya, stroked Sansa's hair was a quiet, "Go back to sleep, sweetling," and went to meet him.

Not to say that Sansa wasn't still listening. It was with that same kingly authority that Robb delivered his order for Sansa and Arya to return to Winterfell, a bittersweet relief that was soon chased by the disappointment and unexpected anger that accompanied his request for Mother to remain.

A hiss so quiet it was barely a whisper, and Sansa turned her head to meet Arya's (very much awake) glaring eyes. An understanding of mutual irritation with their brother passed between them and with silent agreement, they turned their gazes back to their mother and brother.

+++

When asked later, Sansa wouldn't be able to put the horror of Theon's betrayal, of huddling together with her younger siblings in the stark darkness of the family crypt, shivering uncontrollably with both cold and fear, into words. Her heart in her throat, her eyes constantly darted about, searching for any threat that could be lurking in the shadows pressing down around them, but she did her best to quell any outward show of her fear. Rickon and Hodor's restlessness needed to be reprimanded and soothed, though she appreciated the wilding woman Osha's aid in that. It took a considerable amount of coaxing to lull Bran to sleep as well, but she finally succeeded, the boys pressed to either of her sides with Summer and Shaggy curled around them in turn.

Arya sat with an eerie stillness on Bran's other side. Sansa could practically feel the weight of her thoughts. Despite their differences, Sansa knew her sister, and she knew if she allowed herself to fall asleep, Arya was likely to get herself killed trying to introduce Theon to her Needle. A fierceness swelled up inside her, an anger and a protectiveness that wouldn't be denied. She was tired of her family being threatened, tired of feeling helpless every time. Arya wouldn't be rushing off to put herself in danger as long as Sansa could help it.

"Robb will make certain the turncloak gets his due," she said softly, just above a whisper though her voice stayed firm and uncompromising. "But it cannot be now. The pack needs to be strong. We can't be strong if we get reckless."

For a long, pregnant pause, she wondered if Arya had chosen to ignore her completely, but then the younger girl shifted in the dark and released a sigh. "You can sleep, Sansa. I'm not going anywhere."

Foolishly or not, Sansa believed her, and the next time her eyes began to droop, she didn't fight it, secure in the knowledge that one of the Starks in Winterfell was keeping watch.

+++

The new companions they gained after their escape was a peculiar lot. The Reed siblings seemed to nearly be the Children returned- short, slim, and eerily in tune with the rhythms of the marsh and wood. The sister was friendly, if not a bit aloof, but the brother was something different altogether. Wise beyond his physical years, yes, but something more preternatural lurked beneath the surface. His ancient eyes settling on Bran with anything but casual interest never failed to raise the hackles of her inner she-wolf.

In contrast, their remaining escort was a walking, breathing pillar of taciturn surliness. Tall and lean, wiry muscles clearly standing out even beneath his layers of boiled leather and wool, he towered over the Reeds. Still, he took no advantage of his imposing presence, instead maintaining a careful deference to Lady Meera that allowed him to fade into the background and keep his distance from everyone else (especially when he communicated solely through hums, grunts, and monosyllables).

Sansa had only caught flashes of his face, a long, morose mien framed by a mess of muddy brown hair, more often than not shielded by the cowl of his cloak, pulled up and over his head. The most she typically saw of his profile was his clean-shaven jaw and the firm line of his thin-lipped mouth, pressed into so severe a frown she could only seem assume he was perpetually scowling.

He remained an enigmatic, reticent shadow until the night they made camp just shy of reaching the Neck proper. Once the boys had been put to bed, Lady Meera was left the task of informing Sansa (and Arya by extension, despite Sansa’s best efforts to send her to bed as well) that Moat Cailin was being occupied by more Ironborn, and it wouldn’t be easygoing for their efforts to circumvent the danger and make it safely through. To where was a matter of debate- while it was clear they would be safe and welcome at Greywater Watch, there was also an insistent drive to go on to Riverrun.

As Arya had argued the point with her, their mysterious escort cleared his throat and spoke up with more words than Sansa had ever heard him string together at once, gruffly vowing to see them safely through to their destination, no matter what it may be. Flabbergasted, Sansa barely held onto her courtesies to give him a proper expression of gratitude. Taken aback as she was, she wasn’t able to keep enough of her senses to continue the argument, and she grudgingly conceded to Arya that they would go on to Riverrun.

Though she felt assured of their ability to protest and guide them through this strange new terrain, the lingering sense of threat failed to quell her anxiety, leaving her unable to rest easy. It was only her sleeplessness that allowed her to notice Lady Meera approaching the tall shadow standing watch, soundless as her steps were. Almost without conscious permission, Sansa found herself watching ( _and eavesdropping_ , she guiltily admitted in the back of her mind) from behind the folds of her blanket.

“Jon,” Lady Meera said softly, a firmness underlying her voice despite the quietness of her tone. Jon grunted in response, relenting when the older woman gave him a reprimanding look. He sighed, his jaw clenching giving a glimpse of his dark mood before he yanked his cowl back.

"I am aware what you wish to discuss," he replied baldly. "I won't be changing my decision."

Lady Meera cocked her head, regarding him with a heaviness in her gaze that Sansa couldn't quite decipher. "I suppose I should at least be glad you're not ignorant of the dangers you could be facing."

"I know the risks."

"You know them, yes, but are you giving them the weight and consequence they deserve? Mudweed only grows in the Neck, Jon. You can only carry so much to make it all the way to Riverrun and back again. Or not back again as quickly as would be safe. Can you say honestly that the moment you see them safe to the Riverlands, you can turn your back and leave? Leave behind everything you've longed to know?”

"Meera..." He stepped closer, his brow furrowed as he visibly struggled for words for a long moment. "I have a duty to see this through. Even if the blood in my veins didn't demand it, my honor would."

"I know," Lady Meera affirmed. She sighed, the sound heavy with what Sansa thought was fond exasperation. "We'll ask Mother for her thoughts, and I'll sharpen your razors. You'd be desperate enough to slather the real mud on your face if you let your beard grown in."

Jon huffed out a low laugh, yet another unfamiliar sound that would have been startling if Sansa wasn't already so thrown by the informality flowing between them. Her breath caught, eyes going wide as Jon opened his arms in an unmistakable gesture, one that Meera happily accepted as the two ended up wrapped around one another in a warm hug.

Meera rested her cheek against Jon’s shoulder, speaking again with wistful softness. “In a better world, we could call you family in name or blood as well as bond. Perhaps Jojen could have his way and I’d have you for my betrothed.”

Jon chuckled again. “You and I as husband and wife would be a sight to see. But there are wishes and there are impossibilities. I’m sure Lord Howland would rather have Callum Fenn or Wyllam Peat as your consort than a bastard who can’t afford to sire children of his own.”

“The people of the Neck watch out for their own, Jon. If a child of mine took after their father, you wouldn’t find a single voice who would denounce them. As for my father, he’s always hoped for our houses to be joined. He all but calls you son already.”

“And it’s only protocol that keeps ‘my lord’ and not ‘Father’ on my lips, but that is beside the point. I love you dearly, Meera, but I’d rather call you sister than wife.”

“I feel the same.” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “But that won’t make losing you any easier.”

“Meera, you haven’t lost me.”

“Not yet…” She trailed off, growing contemplative. “But maybe…you know of Jojen’s dreams.”

 “I do. I also know the Prince is nearly a man grown within the vision, but here, in this moment, he’s just a boy. As is Jojen.”

“Jon-”

“I don’t question the truth of what Jojen saw, but the Prince is too young. I’ll see him and the rest safe to Riverrun.” His mien grew stern, and he drew back from their embrace. “I love you, Meera. You are my sister in every way but blood. But if you try to interfere, I won’t be gentle.”

A tense silence hung in the air as they stared at one another, the standoff only broken when she leaned up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. The scene rang heavily of goodbye, only compounded by the bittersweet smile Meera gave after they had parted. “I suppose our paths were always meant to diverge at some point. I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I love you, too, Jon Snow. We’ll always be family. Don’t forget that.”

“How could I?” He pressed a kiss to her brow, tucking his cloak back around himself as he straightened up. “Get some rest. I’ll take the rest of the watch.”

Sansa slammed her eyes shut as the other girl walked back toward the fire. Even after Meera settled into her bedroll and quiet once again fell over the camp, it was a long time before Sansa finally found sleep.

+++

The Neck was unlike anything Sansa had ever experienced. Bypassing the causeway by necessity, their journey was wet, long, and harrowing, but Sansa was distracted enough to barely notice the hardship. Her mind constantly raced through new revelations, struggling to balance with the awareness needed given the danger of their situation.

About a day out from Greywater Watch, a root hidden among the mud and muck nearly sent her hurtling into the bog were it not for the strong arms that caught her. Finding her footing, she looked up to thank him, caught off guard as she realized there was a soft smile on Jon’s face. A genuine smile, one she could see reflected in his eyes.

His dark violet eyes.


End file.
